Happily Never After
by prone2dementia
Summary: Future fic. No pairings. Mr. Harris, the beloved science teacher, has nothing to hide. However, it seems that the bloodied, battered, but handsome blond stranger on Mr. Harris's sofa does.
1. And They

**Warnings: **Profanity. Tongue-in-cheek. Brief mention of past relationship. Unbeta'd. Genre-smashing (in which the author takes a bunch of unrelated genres and SMASH them together - results may vary).

**Notes**: No pairings. Disclaimed.

* * *

Happily Never After

Mr. Tom Harris, one of the most beloved instructors at Westbrook School, made sense. With his exuberantly explosive personality, his career choice as a science teacher made sense. (After all, wasn't a laboratory the perfect place to make things explode?) With his ability to entertain as well as explain, his teaching made sense. He was kind, interesting, approachable, and overall a very sensible man.

Danielle Donahue, one of the nosiest students at Westbrook School, made trouble. With her insuppressible curiosity, she didn't _purposefully _set out to disrupt lives. She was merely too curious for her own good. And with a twin brother who liked to indulge her, she was never without the means to be bothersome. Phillip Donahue was a very resourceful boy, and he found his sister's whims to be amusing.

Today was no different.

"I want to know what Mr. Harris is like at home."

In front of their school, Danielle was staring intently at a dark-haired man climbing into a blue sedan. Beside her stood a boy and a girl, following her gaze.

"Why?" asked the girl.

"Don't you ever wonder what your teachers are like outside of school, Silvie?"

Cocking her head to the side, Silvie Baptiste tucked a white-blonde strand of hair behind one ear. "No. How about you, Phillip?"

"Never really cared. I mean, it's always awkward when you see a teacher at the store or somewhere." Phillip shrugged.

Only half-paying attention to the other two, Danielle declared, "Let's visit Mr. Harris's house!"

"...You mean, right now?" Not unused to her friend's random urges, Silvie wasn't overly surprised.

"Yeah, right now. Unless you have something better to do?"

"I dunno, Dani," said the boy, scratching his short, auburn hair. "Kyle and the guys invited me to the cinema."

"Aww,_ Phillip_," insisted Danielle. "Please?"

Wide, blue eyes stared imploringly at Phillip. The boy sighed. By just flashing her patented puppy-dog eyes, his sister could charm anyone into doing _anything._

* * *

Unrecognizable.

For almost an entire minute, Tom Harris had stared at the unrecognizable man in the doorway, trying to figure out the stranger's identity. The teacher had nearly slammed the door in the other's face, but then the man had spoke.

"Tom." Familiar, brown eyes turned onto the shorter man. "Are you going to let me in, or just stare at me?"

Jaws nearly dislocating, Tom could do nothing but ogle. "_Alex? _Is that you?"

Dryly, Alex acknowledged, "The one and only."

A moment later, MI6's top operative found himself manhandled into the flat and onto the sofa. Noting the unchanged décor, he allowed himself to sink into the cushions and relax. The pale green walls never failed in chasing away his stress, and the small fireplace always stirred up a feeling of "home".

"Why are you dressed like that?"

Alex's response was accompanied by a sigh. "I haven't had time to change or get rid of the tattoos."

"Or wash out the hair dye? Or take out the piercings?"

Shifting uncomfortably, the fair-haired man said, "Tom, uh, my flat burned down."

Silence.

"That's why I, um, haven't changed. Do you mind if I crash at your place for a bit?" Alex queried uncertainly.

Opening and closing his mouth several times, the teacher was finally able to let out a strangled reply. "Of course. But...your flat burned down?"

"Yes, while I was away. I didn't lose anything too valuable, though. All I had was a bed, a sofa, a cheap TV..."

"You're missing the point." Suddenly, Tom's blue eyes darkened, and a rising anger colored his voice. "It was done by one of the bastards after you, wasn't it?"

Guiltily, Alex dropped his gaze and swallowed. "Tom, I'll understand if you don't want me here. I'm a walking target, and I'll put you in danger. I should just leave..."

By the end of his statement, the blond had already stood up to go.

"No," Tom said coldly. "Sit down."

In the face of his friend's ferocity, Alex could do nothing but obey. Abjectly, he allowed his gaze to wander, finally resting on a picture frame propped up on the mantle of the fireplace. The frozen moment in time depicted two smiling boys in their late teens. The dark-haired one had an arm slung around the blond. But even with his lips turned upward in laughter, the blond's eyes retained a shuttered quality. In the background, an endless blue sky painted a happy halo around them.

The picture was taken eight years ago on Tom's seventeenth birthday.

_Where had all the time gone?_ Alex wondered sadly.

"Look at me."

Against his will, the spy looked back at his friend.

"Your _flat _burned down, and you sit there as if _nothing _happened." Low and unnaturally calm, Tom's every word was enunciated clearly. "You return after a mission, and you sit there as if _nothing happened_. You get shot, and you'll sit there as if nothing happened. Your girlfriend gets shot, and you'll sit there as if _nothing happened!_ _Dammit, _Alex! Are you even human anymore?"

"...Katherine—" Something akin to pain pulled at Alex's handsome features. "—was a long time ago, and she's not here anymore. And I...I get shot a lot."

"Exactly! And that's _not _okay! It's like you don't even feel anything anymore! _You don't care!_"

Alex snarled, finally provoked.

"Do you think I can bring myself to care anymore, Tom? _Do you?"_ With each word, his volume increased, until he was yelling into his friend's face. "If I care, then I'll get hurt! It's just easier this way, Tom! I'd rather sit here and pretend that nothing happened, okay? That's my way of dealing!"

"You—" Tom started, but Alex cut him off.

"Honestly, do you think I can get worked up about every little thing that happens to me? This is my life, dammit! I can't run away from these things!"

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of Alex's ragged breathing.

When Tom finally spoke, it was in a much gentler tone. "Alex." He rubbed tiredly at his forehead. "I worry about you. Every time you come back, you're injured and hurt. You still smile and stuff, but I can see in your eyes that you've seen too much. I wish you'd just quit your job."

Tersely, Alex bit out, "It's the life I lead."

"Fuck the life you lead, Alex! If you continue this way, you're not gonna _be _alive."

Dark, wry humor diffused into the taller man's eyes. "...You might want to tone down the swearing, Tom. It seems that you've got visitors."

It took a moment for the other man to realize what his friend was saying. Then he swiveled to see the door. He must have forgotten to lock it, for three of his students were standing at the threshold, gaping at him in shock.

He barely refrained from letting out another swear word.

* * *

It turned out that Mr. Harris lived in an flat, not a house. Having found the science teacher's address in the school directory, Phillip had easily led the other two girls to the man's residence. It was a nice place, and on an ordinary teacher's salary, Mr. Harris would not have been able to afford it. Fortunately for him, though, Westbrook was a posh private school that had enough money to stretch over building renovations, technology improvements, and teacher salaries.

"Second door on the left," said Phillip, as the three teenagers exited the elevator on the fourth floor, stepping out onto lush, maroon carpet.

"This is so exciting!"

Phillip leveled his sister with a dubious stare. "Riiight."

"Hey," said Silvie, drawing their attentions. "His door's open."

Surely enough, the second door on the left was opened a crack. An angry voice floated out, and three pairs of eyes widened as they realized to whom the voice belonged.

"...as if _nothing happened!_ _Dammit, _Alex! Are you even human anymore?"

Incredulous, Danielle asked, "Is that _Mr. Harris_? ...No way!"

They had never heard Mr. Harris so much as raise his voice, and they most definitely had never heard Mr. Harris swear.

"Woah, he sounds angry. Who's he talking to?" wondered the blue-eyed girl.

"Listen," said Silvie.

They did, straining to hear the second voice. It was muffled, though. Male, quiet and tired.

"Do you think Mr. Harris is arguing with his gay lover?" Silvie said, suggestively arching an eyebrow.

Phillip choked.

Another burst of irate shouts assaulted their ears. "Exactly! And that's _not _okay! It's like you don't even feel anything anymore! _You don't care!_"

"Ooh-la-la, trouble in paradise, it seems," continued Silvie.

"But Mr. Harris isn't gay!" The only boy in the group looked scandalized.

"Oh, shush," giggled Danielle.

No longer soft, the second voice argued ferociously. "Do you think I can bring myself to care anymore, Tom? _Do you?_ If I care, then I'll get hurt! It's just easier this way, Tom! I'd rather sit here and pretend that nothing happened, okay? That's my way of dealing!" A momentary reprieve, and then, "Honestly, do you think I can get worked up about every little thing that happens to me? This is my life, dammit! I can't run away from these things!"

The argument was starting to sound like it was about more than just relationship troubles, and the three children were becoming worried. Their amused smiles had disappeared, and they glanced apprehensively at each other.

From within the room, there was silence followed by murmured words. "I wish you'd just quit your job."

"The other guy's starting to sound like a gangster or something," noted Danielle.

They continued to listen.

"It's the life I lead."

"Fuck the life you lead, Alex! If you continue this way, you're not gonna _be _alive."

"Definitely supporting the gangster theory," said Phillip, unconsciously leaning onto the door. "—Oh, shit!"

Pushed by the teen's weight, the door had swung open, and the sight beyond caused them to gape unabashedly. The trio had never seen Mr. Harris dressed so casually—in old sweatpants and a t-shirt. They had also never expected Mr. Harris to be in the company of such a dangerous looking man. The bloodied, battered, but handsome stranger on their teacher's sofa wore dark jeans and a sleeveless shirt. Intricate tattoos snaked up his muscled arms, and his ears were pierced in several places. His spiked hair was an amalgamation of blond and black, and a livid bruise was just beginning to form over his chiseled right cheekbone.

He looked like trouble.

He looked like the type of person that Mr. Harris (or any other teacher, for that matter) would point at and say, "_That's not the type of person you'll want to get mixed up with, kids_."

Mr. Harris seemed to have recovered from his stupefaction. "Danielle, Phillip, Silvie. What are you three doing here?"

"Um." Danielle stuttured momentarily. "...We wanted clarification on the material you went over in class today."

A beat of silence.

As Mr. Harris digested her words, he looked as if he were trying to hide incredulity. "And you didn't think to call or email me instead?"

"Er. No." Phillip shifted awkwardly.

The man, Alex, appeared to be hiding a smirk. With a smile playing in his eyes, he almost didn't seem as intimidating as before.

"We just thought it'd be easier if we saw you face to face. We weren't sure if we could explain our questions in an email or on the telephone. I guess we should have checked if you had company first. Should we come back at a more convenient time?" Ever the polite one, Silvie's artifice came across as smooth and apologetic.

Mr. Harris's eyes softened, empathy dissolving away his indignity and surprise. After all, he couldn't resist an opportunity to help his students.

"No, it's all right. Although this is rather unorthodox, why don't you come in? We'll see what I can do for you."

Thus, for the next half hour, the three pupils spun up question after question for their teacher. Mr. Harris acted professional once again, seeming like a completely different person than the angry, swearing one they had glimpsed earlier. The other man made himself sparse, and Danielle and Silvie were almost upset over the loss of eye-candy.

When they finally deemed that it appropriate to leave, they bade their teacher a farewell and stepped back out into the hallway.

As they waited for the elevator, Danielle announced, "I will never be able to look at Mr. Harris the same way again."

"Just because you heard him cussing out his gay gangster lover?" asked Silvie.

Phillip had half a mind to bang his head against a wall.

Girls could be so annoying sometimes.

* * *

"They'll never be able to look at me the same way again," groaned Tom, as his front door swung shut.

Alex popped back into the sitting room, sipping out of the cup he held. He looked thoroughly amused.

The other man continued, "I bet you that everyone at school will have heard about this by Monday."

"What do you mean by 'this'?"

"I mean _me. _Swearing at a guy who looks like he belongs in a gang. No one will ever be able to take me seriously again when I tell them to '_mind their language'_."

"That's honestly all you're worried about?"

"What else should I be worried about?"

"I don't know, Tom. Teenagers have pretty wild imaginations." A smile tugged at the corners of Alex's lips. "Just imagine what conclusions they could've jumped to. They might have thought that I was your gay lover or something."

Horror shown in Tom's eyes. "_No_."

Merely shrugging, the taller of the two did not reply.

Tom lamented abjectly, "No matter what, you'll always gossiped about. Things never change, do they?"

Alex closed his eyes, thinking back to his teenage years when after every mission, MI6 promised never to exploit him again. Then he thought of himself promising Jack and Tom again and again that he would leave the spy business.

"No." He sighed. "No, they never do."


	2. All Lived

Incessant ringing awakened Alex on the subsequent Saturday. Disoriented, he sat up in bed and gazed about at his surroundings. The sheets and pillows were an unfamiliar shade of blue, too dark to be his own, and weak morning light filtered through a window that _should _have been on the right side...but wasn't.

Because he wasn't in his own room.

Because his flat had burned down in a glorious, raw blaze.

Because Tom had agreed to let him stay in this guest bedroom, with its corn silk walls and bleached pine furniture.

His gaze landed on the clock. It read 5:07 in blocked numbers and informed him that it was too early to be awake. Only one person contacted him this early. With reluctant movements and a heavy sigh, he reached onto the bedside stand, fumbling blindly for the source of the ringing. Palming it, he snatched his hand back and held his phone above bleary eyes.

_Urgent, _the screen informed him. Alex sighed with displeasure. Only one number was saved as "_Urgent" _on his phone's contact list.

It was MI6.

Pressing _talk, _he snapped, "You've reached McDonald's. How may I help you?"

A pause; a facile rejoinder, "Mr. Rider, your conduct is _appalling."_

"Gonna fire me for it, Tulip?"

On the other end, there was a sigh. Over the years, Alex had graduated from mannered to uncouth, and no one could do anything about it. He was too valuable to lose, and because his attitude resulted from years of savage exploitation, Mrs. Jones felt too guilty to admonish him. Instead, she tried her best to ignore Alex's tangible rancor.

"Actually, we need you to attend a seminar today."

"As a student?" the man snorted.

"As one of the instructors."

Alex mulled over the words, then stated tersely, "Explain."

Mrs. Jones was quick to oblige. "Several units of SAS trainees have arrived in London to study tactics used for urban settings. At 3:00 today, they will be attending a seminar on the protection of public events. We need you to replace the worst-case scenario instructor, who is down with the flu."

"...You do understand," said Alex slowly, flattening at his tousled hair with one free hand, "that this is _very _last minute. What makes you think I'll know what to talk about?"

"We have complete faith that you'll think up something—"

Alex rolled his eyes, but continued to listen without interrupting.

"—Lindbergh Building, auditorium, three o'clock. You will receive a schedule outline upon arrival. Do you have any questions?"

For a moment, he debated whether or not to ask about the identities of his co-instructors. Apathy won out when he realized that he really didn't care, as long as they didn't plan to murder him.

"No."

"All right. And..." There was a hesitant silence, before, "Alex?"

"What?"

"Happy twenty-fifth."

Swearing fluently, Alex hanged up. Then sulked. Then glared at his mobile as if it were the cause of all his troubles. Then, finally, decided to check the calendar application.

February 13, it said.

He was both halfway to fifty and halfway to a migraine. Abjectly, he massaged at throbbing temples and swung sleep-numbed legs off the bed. Trudging to his duffel, which was slung haphazardly across a chair, he retrieved the single change of clothes that he still owned. He would need to go shopping soon, he noted as he pulled on the sweats and t-shirt. He would also need to go visit Smithers. Otherwise, the tattoos, earrings, and hair dye would be permanent.

Minutes later found him in the bathroom, brushing his teeth and staring at his reflection.

He looked..._bad, _in all senses of the word. His bruise now marred a sizeable portion beneath his right eye. At the places where the piercings had pressed against him in sleep, irritated skin flamed a dull red. His blond, black mess of hair was in desperate need of a brush, and his stubbled chin needed a shave. Exhaling messily, he spat out a mouthful of toothpaste, wiped off his lips, and reached for a razor.

By the time he left the bathroom, it was already a quarter until six. All was silent throughout the flat, and he padded lightly into the hallway, attempting not to disturb the peace. When he pushed open Tom's door with a gentle hand, he was greeted by a sigh that made him smirk.

Tom was splayed out on the bed, with his face squashed against the pillow. A line of drool trickled out of his opened mouth and down his chin as he snored quietly, oblivious to the world. Seized by inspiration, Alex extracted his mobile and directed the camera lens at his friend.

_Click_.

The image was instantly reproduced on his screen. Hitting _save, _he allowed a blatant smirk to diffuse across his expression. Blackmail could, after all, make anyone power-giddy. Even Alex.

Stepping out of the room, he concluded that a jog would be in order. Tom would not be awake for at least another hour, and Alex needed to occupy himself.

Although the February weather was harsh, he braved it without a second thought. Missions in the Arctic had made him immune to cold climates, just as missions near the equator had made him immune to hot ones. For him, the key to ignoring physical discomfort was mind games. If he could distract himself long enough, he would not _feel_. Because of this, he found jogs in uncomfortable weather to be very conducive for sorting out thoughts.

He always went on long jogs after returning from missions. Maybe they were a coping mechanism for him. All he needed to do was concentrate on breathing and thinking.

Breathing and thinking.

No pressure from the outside world.

Nothing to be scared of.

He wasn't in the Detroit slums anymore, with its street-corner prostitutes and stoop-lurking criminals. He wasn't infiltrating a pyromaniac gang anymore, with its arson calling card and far-reaching power. He wasn't in danger of being burned or being tortured or being executed. He was in London. He was home. In this city, he was anonymous, like a single grain of sand or a single drop of rain. And he liked it that way.

Black cabs, gray pavement, and multifarious stores flashed past him. Jumping out from the blur of color, one particular shop sign caught his attention:

_Camilla's Café_

_For the Daring Connoisseur_

It was turquoise and brown, dangling precariously over an age-dusted glass door. On a whim, Alex paused mid-stride and made a detour for it. A deft wrench of the door handle was followed by a jingle, announcing his arrival. Inside, the café was warmed by earthy hues of mahogany and cream, along with a crackling fireplace that stood in the corner. Early morning patrons were scattered about the shop, sipping from steaming cups and reading from magazines and newspapers. None of them paid him any attention as he picked his way through the room and toward the counter.

"May I help you?" The lady who spoke had an ageless quality about her, but it was different than Blunt's frozen indifference. With critical, deep-set eyes, she studied his appearance.

Suddenly, Alex felt very self-conscious. "Um, yes. Your sign advertises to the daring connoisseur, and I wanted to try your fares."

Although her lips were set, her eyes lit with a slow smile. "Very well, then. Would you like a complete list or...?"

"How about you make a suggestion," Alex said quickly. "I'm pretty open to just about anything."

"All right." The smile had made its way to her mouth now, and a row of perfect teeth was flashed at Alex. "I'd suggest the mint-pumpkin spice cakes and the almond-apricot coffee."

The blond felt his eyebrows shoot up. "Well, that's certainly...different. I'll have four of the cakes and two of the coffees to go, please."

She nodded, ringing up the order. "Your total is £7.20."

After paying and obtaining his purchases, he strolled out of the shop, taking to the streets at a much slower pace. Fragrant steam trailed behind him all the way back to Tom's flat, and he arrived in the kitchen with pastry-warmed fingers and wind-bitten, red cheeks. Just as he set down the items, a scuffling noise announced the arrival of his friend.

Dull-eyed and slouched, Tom shuffled into the room, heading toward the coffee with a single-minded determination. Thoroughly amused, Alex watched as the teacher raised the cup to his mouth and took a long, deep drag. He seemed to relax immediately, and his expression was suddenly lucid.

"Hmm...something nutty...almond? Yes. Almond and..."

"Apricot," Alex finished for him. "And now that the junkie has gotten his fix, does the junkie remember what day it is?"

Tom stared at him blankly. "Um. Saturday?"

"Saturday, the thirteenth of February," supplied the spy.

A blink, before a shout of, "Oh!" Tom set down his coffee and twisted around, giving full attention to his friend. "You're officially halfway to fifty now! Congratulations, mate. Got any plans to celebrate?"

Alex shrugged. "Well, MI6 decided to wish me a happy birthday by calling me at five this morning."

Tom's frown of worry was instantly evident. "They're not asking you to go on another mission, are they?"

"I'd decline if they were, but no. They want me to teach a seminar at three o'clock." Sighing, Alex gestured at the other man. "So, how about you? Do you have any hot dates?"

"Only if you count a date with the test papers _hot,_" snorted Tom, flopping heavily into a seat at the dining table. "I swear, becoming a teacher was the worst thing I could've done for my love life. All I have time for is grading papers, grading class work, grading projects..." He trailed off, taking another dreg of his beverage.

"It's your own fault. If you didn't assign so much, you wouldn't have to grade so much," Alex gibed unsympathetically—and ducked just in time to avoid the now-empty coffee container chucked at his head.

* * *

_Officious _was the only way to describe the salesgirl.

"_Do you need assistance?"_

"_Are you having any trouble?"_

"_Can I help you find this in a different size?"_

Alex wanted to scream but, instead, plastered on the same, pained smile and continued to decline. No matter where he went, though, she was always there: The pants section, the shirts section, the _socks _section... Alex could only breathe a sigh of relief when he picked out the last of the basic necessities, and made his way to the check out desk.

Of course, she was there again.

"Is this all for today?" she asked, popping her gum and peering at him from beneath mascara-laden lashes.

"Yes," he managed through gritted teeth.

"Well, I hope your shopping experience has been pleasant—" _Quite the contrary_, thought Alex. "—Please come again!"

She handed him the receipt, and he pocketed it. Escaping the store quickly, he sped to his BMW. When he started the engine, the clock displayed 2:50. He promptly let lose a torrent of colorful French, and reached into the back for one of his shopping bags. Rifling through his purchases, he dragged out slacks, shoes, and a striped collared shirt. He tore off the tags as fast as possible and changed into them, all the while thanking heaven that his car windows were tinted.

2:52.

Grimly, he started out of the parking lot and toward the Lindbergh Building. Unfortunately for him, he didn't realize how odd he looked until he was jogging down the halls of the aforementioned MI6 facility. Curious gazes followed him all the way to the auditorium, and he did his best to ignore them. There was nothing he could change about his appearance now. The bruise wouldn't fade for another few days, the earrings would explode if he tried to remove them, and the hair dye wouldn't come out unless he had Smither's shampoo*. He was just glad that his shirt covered up most of the tattoos.

Barreling through the back entrance, he made it to the auditorium just in time.

The majority of the maroon-cushioned seats were left empty because the assembled units were only congregated toward the front. As per protocol, the rows of SAS trainees had leapt to their feet upon hearing his arrival. Respectfully, they fixed their gaze forward; thus, their first glimpse of him entailed a head of blond-black hair, with strands tucked behind repeatedly pierced ears. Attempting to keep the shock off their faces, they followed his progress down the aisle and onto the stage—onto the stage where there were three men.

Three _very familiar _men by the codenames of Wolf, Snake, and Eagle**.

Alex wasn't sure whose reaction was more comical: his or theirs. Shaking his head, he sighed and walked the last few steps to the empty chair next to Eagle. When he had finally taken his seat, the SAS trainees sat down in unison.

Masked by the flurry of movement, one man leaned over to ask, "Is he in the right place?"

Equally bewildered, the other man shrugged. "Guess we'll have to wait and see."

Once more, a hush descended.

"Good afternoon, soldiers." A man in his mid-thirties had stood up. He was short, square and stolid. "I am Wolf. With me are Snake, Eagle, and—" Something unreadable crossed his countenance. "—_Agent Rider_ of MI6."

Feeling all stares swivel to him, "Agent Rider" resisted the overwhelming urge to shift uncomfortably. He knew that he probably looked like a punk, especially sitting next to three senior SAS agents, all dressed in fully decorated uniforms.

Beside him, Eagle and Snake were suppressing smirks.

"This seminar is about the protection and safety of high-profile, public events. If you will look at your schedule outlines..."

Reminded by Wolf's words, Eagle reached into his pocket, pulled out a note card, and deposited it onto Alex's lap. Brows furrowing, the spy unfolded it. Penned in squat, neat handwriting were the words:

_Wolf—Strategic Planning and Danger Assessment_

_Snake—High-Risk Behaviors and Riot Prevention_

_Eagle—Field Examples_

_You—Worst-Case Scenarios_

Alex nodded his understanding and leaned back. Half of his attention was devoted to listening while the other half was devoted to scanning the audience. From their reactions, he could work backwards and gauge how others viewed his teammates' personalities.

Although Wolf's topic wasn't the most interesting, he garnered the most respect. Alex suspected that this was because of Wolf's uncanny ability to act like his namesake. On the other hand, when Snake spoke, Alex could detect many in the crowd who were warding off sleep. It wasn't because Snake was boring; it was merely because Snake didn't have the charisma to capture an audience. Eagle, however, possessed the aforesaid charisma. Unlike Wolf, the attention that he acquired was due to an intrinsic knowledge of how to engage the trainees. There were much more laughs when he took to the podium, and Alex felt almost intimidated by the fact that he would have to follow up such an engrossing lecture.

When Eagle finally sat down, Alex unfolded himself from the chair, at a loss for what to say. The trainings were staring expectantly at him, and he was staring right back.

He cleared his throat. "Worst-case scenarios are synonymous with attacks. There are two types of them: premeditated and spontaneous. Premeditated attacks are meant to achieve something; spontaneous attacks are merely reactions. Because they have different risks, they need to be dealt with in different ways. Any questions?"

Silence.

Then Wolf asked incredulously, "That's_ it?_"

"I got a call at five this morning, telling me that I had to do this. Do you really expect me to have much to say?" Alex replied flatly, and although his voice was soft, it carried.

More silence.

"Cub," said Eagle hesitantly. "This seminar lasts 'til five. It's four-forty right now."

It took all of Alex's will power to maintain decorum. "M'not Cub anymore," he muttered, before facing the assembly. "All right, soldiers, time to get creative. Give me your worst-case scenarios, and I'll give you a response."

An uncertain hand rose from within the group.

Alex nodded at it. "Yes? And be specific, please."

Standing up, a dark-haired man, who looked around Alex's age, said, "Say that five hundred people are gathered at an outdoor event to hear the Prime Minister speak. A man announces himself and threatens to release a mutated anthrax strain if his demands are not met. What would we do?"

"I'm assuming that the attack is premeditated?"

"Yes, sir."

The _sir _threw Alex for a moment, but he recovered quickly, "First, you'll want to notify all law enforcement and medical dispatchers in the area. Until you get evidence of the contrary, assume that the threat is real. Ground the aggressor, make sure he has nowhere to go, ask him of his demands, and assess his mental stability. At the same time, perform a reverse evacuation. Start with the people near the outside ring, and make sure that the aggressor doesn't realize what is being attempted." Alex paused. "What happens next all depends on the reality of the threat and the details of the demand."

When Alex finished, murmurs rippled through the crowd. Many of the soldiers appeared to be reluctantly impressed.

"What time is it, now?" Alex inquired of Eagle.

"Four forty-six."

Carding a hand through his locks, Alex turned back to the SAS trainees. "More scenarios?"

This time, several eager hands shot up. One person asked about terroristic threats at airports. Another brought up the topic of nuclear bombs. Another spoke of natural catastrophes. However, the last question of the day was much less scenario-based and much more personal-based.

It came from a wiry brunet with a booming voice and speculative eyes. "Have _you_ experienced any worst-case scenarios that you're willing to share?"

The gathering stirred.

Alex didn't know what to say. The truth would be... _yes, _he had experienced many worst-case scenarios. But he couldn't speak of them, didn't _want _to speak of them.

"I don't think you'd believe me," he said at last.

Seeming to understand his reluctance, Wolf stood up, taking the burden of the stares upon himself. "It's five now. Before you are dismissed, let me remind you of the training activity that you will be attending on Monday. You will have to apply everything that you've learned today." He appraised the group before finally saying, "That is all. You are dismissed."

Amidst the instant bustle and chatter, Alex turned to his teammates. "Training activity?"

It was Eagle who answered, "Yes. Angelique di Marco, the politician, will be speaking at a school on Monday. Westbrook, I believe."

" – West – brook?" _Wasn't that where Tom taught?_

Nodding, Wolf said, "Westbrook. And that reminds me: As an instructor, you'll have to attend as well. Preferably as a plain-clothes agent."

"Is this a big deal?"

"As big as they get. There will be parents, teachers, and students from other schools attending too. Any other questions, Cub?"

Alex scowled. "I turned twenty-five today. You could at least do me the courtesy of calling me something different."

"You'll always be Cub to us," smirked Wolf, "_Cub_."

At the same time, Snake asked, "Oh, is that what your appearance is about? A 'new' look for the 'new' you?"

Alex could just _hear _the air quotes around "new".

Scowling, he said, "No. This appearance is about blending in on a mission. I'll be getting rid of it _very soon_." Turning his eyes to the ceiling, Alex sighed. "This is the crappiest birthday I've had in ages."

Eagle leaned over and patted his shoulder consolingly.

* * *

*I plead guilty to stealing from ObsessivelyOdd.

**Yeah, yeah, don't complain to me about the technicalities. Trust me. I know.

A favorite/alert = an email. A review = a smile. ;D


	3. Happily Ever

"Y'know what?"

"What, Tom?"

"Alex, be a good sport and guess."

A long-suffering sigh. "You've...decided to take over the world?"

"Although that's a good idea, no. Try again."

"You want to join a mariachi band?"

"...No._"_

"You're secretly in love with your pet rock—Edward Cullen—and you plan to elope to Vegas, get married, have two point five kids, live in a picket fenced house, _then_ have a mid-life crisis, divorce Edward, buy a fancy sports car, marry a girl half your age, have—"

"_No._"

"—Tom, just tell me."

"Fine. We should get really, _really _smashed."

"..."

"To celebrate your birthday, I mean."

"...No thanks. I don't think a hangover would make for a very good belated birthday present."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

Giving up, Tom returned to grading papers. Finally left alone, Alex deflated into his hunter-green armchair and re-immersed himself within _Grey's Anatomy, Condensed for the Casual Reader_. Saffron bars of lamp light played across both written words and typed text, as golden as the silence that had descended. For long moments, there was nothing but the scratch of pen over paper and fingers rifling pages. Then, a snort of disbelief—

"Alex, you _have _to look at this."

Slowly, the aforementioned man raised his eyebrows as he lowered his book. With languid but legato movements, he unfolded himself from his seat and padded to his friend, who was splayed across the sofa.

"Yes?"

"Read," said Tom, indicating at a sheet of notebook paper.

Eyebrows still arched, Alex received it, detachedly noting its crumpled state. As he read over the quivery, deathbed script, his eyes grew wider and wider in counterparts to his disbelieving grin.

_Atoms are like people. People like to be happy. Atoms like to be happy, too. That is why they_—something indiscernible—_electrons—_a questionable stain_—nucleus._

"You see this? _This _is what I have to deal with everyday," complained Tom, scrubbing tiredly at his face. "My prompt was: In a paragraph of no less than two-hundred-fifty words, explain the structure of the atom. Provide adequate support for why the atom is structured this way, and be sure to include examples."

"I'd gladly trade jobs," Alex said cheekily, looking up.

Tom opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again, finally sputtering, "I _really _need to get smashed."

"No, my friend, you really need to get laid." Ducking to avoid the pen that was hurled his way, Alex muttered, "But it's a good thing that you aren't, seeing as you're so abusive."

This time, Tom chose verbal reprisal over physical, muttering insults beneath his breath. Purposefully choosing to ignore them, Alex retrieved the pen from its resting place on the beige carpet.

"You're welcome." Alex smirked as he returned the item to Tom.

Merely glaring, Tom said nothing. His petulant silence did not last long, however—for, when he snatched the pen away and began to scratch savagely at his papers, yet another expletive fell from his lips.

"_Damn_. The pen's not working."

"Well, you know... Pens are like people. People like to be happy. Pens like to be happy, too. That is why they don't work when you mistreat them," parroted the other man.

Pained, Tom set aside his work and rubbed his forehead. "Explain again why you decided to be so annoying tonight?"

"Maybe it's 'cos you haven't gave me anything for my birthday yet?" Alex offered innocently, shrugging.

With defeated shoulders, the other man reminded him, "I already said that I'll have it by Monday. And it'll be worth the wait, I swear."

Before Alex could comment, two simultaneous ring tones spilled into the room. Digging through his pocket, the blond grasped his black mobile. At the same time, Tom reached across the coffee table with a lethargic hand, picking up his own phone. By way of tacit communication, Alex automatically headed to the kitchen. As he left, he could hear his friend's curious _Hello? _And then, walking out of the sitting room, he heard no more, and concentrated on his own call instead.

The display screen informed him that it was—

"_Jack! _Finally decided to call me, did you?"

There was laughter from the woman, warm and breathy like April winds after rain. "Happy Birthday, Alex. Sorry I didn't call earlier—"

"Let me guess: You were buried under a case?" By _case_, Alex referred to the multitude of art related law cases that Jack dealt with. Although his words were accusatory, his voice was playful. Unconsciously, he found himself grinning at the basket of apples on the otherwise empty kitchen counter.

"Thanks for understanding," Jack said sheepishly. "It's just the law suit between the Versa—" She cut herself off, sounding exasperated. "Oh, forget it. I shouldn't ruin your day by ranting about this. So, how are you?"

"Ah, I'm average. Just returned to London a couple of days ago—" Alex didn't reveal where he returned from; he _never _revealed where he returned from. Suddenly feeling fidgety, he extended an arm to the apple basket, selecting a fruit and weighing it absentmindedly. It was red, but brighter than Jack's hair. "—and I had to teach a seminar today... I also discovered a quaint, little coffee shop. You'd love it, I'm sure."

"Then be sure to show it to me when I'm in London." She halted—silent except for her faint breaths—before inquiring, "And did you get my gift in the mail yet?"

"Um. I've had...an unexpected change of address."

"Did something happen to your flat?" Jack's tired sigh was shadowed by a cloud of concern. "Do you have somewhere to stay?"

"Yes to both questions."

"...Well?" prompted the American. "What happened?"

Like a little kid who'd unexpectedly brought about the butterfly effect, Alex felt his cheeks flush pink. "My flat burned down. I'm staying with Tom right now."

"Oh, _Alex_. Who did it?" Of course, she waived the question of '_Was it an accident?'_

Her tone demanded a response, and Alex didn't have the heart to withhold it from her. "An international, pyromaniac gang that I'd been..._investigating." _Remorseful for causing her undue stress, he swallowed—perhaps trying to swallow the guilt.

She sighed once more. "I won't make you say any more, but – but, just tell me, are you all right?"

"Yes," he agreed eagerly. "I'm fine."

"Just like you were '_fine' _after all of the other missions?"

He could just _picture _her skeptically pursed lips. Wincing, he said, "Yes."

"Okay, well... Go out and enjoy yourself or something. It's your birthday today, so have some fun."

"I will," he asserted, relieved that she had not pushed further. "Thanks for this, Jack. Call again when you have free time."

"Yes, and have yourself a good night."

* * *

Glancing up, Tom caught sight of Alex sidling back into the room.

"Speak of the devil," the teacher noted, more for his own benefit than for the benefit of both parties listening in on him. Then, talking more directly into his phone, he said, "I'll call you back with his answer."

"_All right, and make sure he doesn't stand me up this time, Tom!"_

Chuckling, Tom pressed _end _and turned to a very weary-looking Alex.

"...Well?" the MI6 operative asked at last, when the silence became overwhelming. "Who were you talking to?"

"You first." Yes, Tom would prolong the torture for as long as possible. It certainly amused him to watch a dangerous, high-ranking spy fidget.

Alex obliged, but the scowl marring his face suggested that he had not done so willingly. "Jack. She, unlike _some people_, remembered my birthday without being prompted."

Ignoring the implied affront, the other man reciprocated, "A couple of my friends invited us out for a drink."

"Us?" Alex's frown was perplexed.

"Yeah. _Us_," stressed Tom. "One friend made it particularly clear that she would _absolutely looove _the company of _that handsome blond friend of yours, Tom. And make sure he doesn't stand me up this time!_"

An unwilling snort of laughter was rend from the other man. Dejected and boneless, he flopped onto the cushion next to his friend, making an indent along with a muffled sound. Taking in Alex's furrowed brows—a testament to reluctance—Tom was rather surprised when his friend said:

"Well, I guess that means we have to go. Mind you, I won't be drinking, though."

"_Go?" _Actually, Tom was more than surprised. He was incredulous. "Go and be social? Who are you and what've you done with Alex Rider?"

"Took him down in a fight and left him lying in a ditch somewhere."

"You're so full of crap."

Sighing, Alex rubbed his neck. "It was Jack," he disclosed eventually. "She told me to go out and enjoy myself tonight."

Understanding coursed through the teacher. "Are you sure?"

Even though he was excited by the prospect of Alex's reintegration into society, he did not want to pressure the spy. After all, he understood his friend's motivations for a reclusive life style: He didn't want to get close to people, for fear of losing them.

"Why not?" Alex shrugged carelessly, and the flippancy of the action warred with the lines of tension in his body. "What pub are we heading to?"

"Manette's—and it's more of a club than a pub."

"Mmkay." Manette's was an upscale hangout, popular for its constantly changing decoration schemes but consistently polite service. "We're taking my car, then."

Dark hair swayed to the side as Tom's head jerked up; light slanted across a face that was trying and failing to conceal a sulk. "_Why?"_

"Because," said Alex simply, "mine is an armored vehicle and yours is one step away from the junkyard."

Instead of replying, Tom rolled his eyes. Although his car was a loyal, time-tested companion, even he could not contest its decrepit, feeble, and sputtering state. Standing up, he stretched and traipsed out of the room, casting a haphazard "_back in a few"_ over one shoulder. In his own bedroom, he changed out of the sweatpants that he was so fond of and donned nice jeans and an unwrinkled shirt in its stead. True to his words, he made his return quickly, discovering Alex in the entrance hall with keys and a jacket in hand.

"I'm ready," said Tom. "And you?"

"As I'll ever be."

Together, they traversed the path down the hallway, footsteps dampened by the subdued, red carpet. Finding the elevator empty and waiting, they stepped into the commodious box. Tom noticed Alex's unnatural stillness, but said nothing. Having been the spy's closest friend for many years, he was well versed in Alex's inner workings: If Alex found himself in an enclosed space, he felt out of control externally. If Alex felt out of control externally, he compensated by restraining himself internally—thus resulting in a statuesque temperament.

Down and down they went—in a companionable silence—until the elevator reached the basement garage, and Alex subsequently reached a mindset of relaxation. Conversation, mindless and amicable, ignited once more between them as they trailed over friction-smoothed concrete and toward Alex's slate-gray BMW.

Climbing within, Alex started the ignition and asked, "How many people will we be meeting?"

Tom, who occupied the seat beside him, hummed thoughtfully. "There will be Yvette and Max. Do you remember them?"

"The couple in their early thirties? Yes."

"Yeah. And there'll also be Kris and Rupali. Rupali's a new teacher in the English Department, by the way."

But Alex's interest laid with the first name mentioned, and said interest bordered on horror. "Kris? The one I've been trying to avoid?"

"Hey, don't blame me now. I told you earlier that one of them was dying to see you. I'd thought you knew who I was talking about." Sheepish, Tom aimed his gaze out the window and away from his friend's accusatory glare. "Keep your eyes on the road," he added.

Alex snorted, but complied. There was more silence, and—whilst trying to distract himself—Tom noticed a crinkled piece of paper wedged between his feet and the floor. Curiously, he doubled over and extracted it.

Becoming aware of his friend's actions, Alex queried, "What's that?"

"I was going to ask you..." Unfolding it, Tom skimmed the contents. "It's the receipt for your purchases yesterday."

Upon hearing this, the other became apathetic, but Tom was not quite finished—

"And it's got a number of the back, did you know?"

"A what?" Alex was half-convinced that his ears deceived him.

"A number."

"Who's number?"

"Someone named..." Tom squinted at the bubbly handwriting. "Olivia."

There was a moment of incomprehension, before the image of a salesgirl's nametag manifested in Alex's mind. With it came an unpleasant realization and an ensuing sigh.

"I remember now." Alex's voice was flat. "Olivia was that girl from the store—the one who wouldn't leave me alone."

"Well... She's certainly persistent."

"Persistence isn't always a good thing. A person has to know when to give up," countered the MI6 agent.

Instead of rebutting, Tom gestured out the window with a jabbing finger. "Turn here or you'll miss the entrance."

"Who's the driver here? Me or you?" said Alex under his breath.

A practiced curve of the steering wheel later, they were pulling into the car park. The majority of the spaces were already filled, and—cruising past them—Tom appraised a variety of vehicles. There were sedans, old and new; motorcycles, sleek and battered; vans, conventional and bohemian. And, after they located a spot and advanced into Manette's, Tom found himself appraising a group of people who were just as diverse.

Waving them over to a table in the back corner, a dark skinned man called out in his booming baritone, "Tom, Alex! You made it."

"Of course we would, Max," said Tom.

There was a trio of women seated around Max: a copper-haired lady whom Alex remembered to be his wife, an Indian beauty that Alex assumed to be Rupali, and a blonde whom Alex _knew _to be Kris.

"Now the party can really get started." Capricious fingers twirled at a strand hair; hungry eyes locked on Alex.

"Hi, Kris...," the man greeted weakly.

Much as Tom predicted, the MI6 operative refused her offers of alcohol—claiming to be the designated driver. He also deflected her inquiries about his new appearance and obviated her attempts at flirtation.

He had managed to seize the seat farthest from her. Its back rested against the wall, so that he could face the dusky club and have an unobstructed view of significant occurrences. With a relaxation that he'd earned though extensive practice, his eyes swept over the entire room. Draped in chocolate satin, the four walls and ceiling enclosed over a dance floor that could potentially be hazardous in the event of an impromptu evacuation. Congregating at the various baluster-legged tables were groups of friends; dotting the stools at the bar were singles attempting to find prospective partners. Archaic chandeliers—weak in the dimness of the expansive enclosure—contributed to the arabesque play of light across expressive faces: some featuring lips pulled by excitement, others featuring foreheads pulled by worry...

Alex's study of all that went on was not lost on Tom, and the latter—convinced that his friend should revert attentions back to those immediately around him—prodded at Alex with an impatient finger.

"_Less worrying,_" mouthed the teacher, who then attempted to engage him in conversation. "We were just telling Rupali to be wary of the Donahue twins, but she wouldn't believe us."

"Donahue twins...?"

"Remember the three kids who showed up at my flat yesterday? The two auburn-haired ones were the twins."

Like rain into earth, comprehension sank into Alex's mind gradually.

"...Ooh," he said at last. _"Them."_

Before Tom could voice agreement, Rupali cut in—

"Wait, they actually showed up at his flat? Tom was telling the _truth_?" Pretty, dark eyes implored Alex to be honest.

Amused, he replied to the young Indian, "Hard as it is to believe, yes. I was there when they knocked down the door...in a rather literal fashion."

Max laughed heartily, eyes alight with cheer. "I can't say I'm surprised. Danielle can be quite enthusiastic in music class. However, I haven't had the pleasure of teaching her brother."

"Count your blessings," said Tom with a shiver, downing a flute of electric yellow daiquiri.

"Is he honestly that bad...?"

Enthusiastically, the science teacher launched into a tirade about Phillip Donahue's insidious tactics, with Kris interjecting testimony of how the boy acted in her history class. Horrified yet amused, Rupali, Max, and Yvette—who was not a teacher but a banker—listened in on Tom's soliloquy of all the ways Phillip attempted to avoid homework, class work, tests, punishments...

But even as Tom spoke, he could sense Alex's rising discomfort. The first sign came in the form of his unnatural stillness; the second sign came in the form of his darkened gaze. Shadows stole across his face as he twisted to the side, as if trying to track the movements of someone across the club.

"Is something wrong?" Tom whispered, dropping out of his dialogue with the others.

Brown eyes snapped towards him, betraying no emotions. "I...have to use the restroom. I won't be gone long."

Worried, Tom watched as Alex stood up and shouldered his way through the crowd. Something was wrong. That much was obvious from Alex's avoidance of Tom's question.

"Is he going to get us another round? I thought he wasn't drinking," said Kris, a pout threatening to capture her lips.

"He's not. He needed the restroom."

"Oh, is he not feeling well? I did notice that he was awfully quiet tonight."

"But isn't he normally quiet?" asked Max. "Maybe you're just so enamored by him that you've turned into an overprotective parent—seeing troubles where there are none."

"I am not _so enamored_ by him!" Kris protested feebly, thrusting expressive hands heavenward.

"Well...perhaps not." Tom pretended to consider her words. "Perhaps, it's infatuation."

Frustrated eyes rolled toward the ceiling. "Let's just talk about something else, shall we?"

Thus, the topic moved away from Kris's misguided affection, but—unbeknownst to any of his companions—Tom's inner thoughts did not progress with them. They resided with Max's words of, "_...seeing trouble where there are none_." Tom desperately hoped that was true. Against his better judgment, he swallowed his misgivings and decided to wait for Alex's return.

Yet Alex didn't return.

As the night advanced, more and more people poured onto the dance floor—but Tom could not detect Alex's presence anywhere in the writhing mass. As the night advanced, Tom desired more and more to join the rest of the group's drunken bliss—but he could not allow himself to do so.

Tipping back glass after glass of alcohol would be the easy way out. Tipping back glass after glass of alcohol would ensure that, every time a fair-haired man passed nearby, Tom would not let his hopes rise (because, inevitably, the man would not be Alex). Tipping back glass after glass of alcohol would soothe his worries and convince him that nothing was wrong. Except—

Something _was _wrong.

_Something was very wrong._

Distracted by this echoing thought, Tom did not even hear the screams at first—the screams that reverberated through the crowd, like gunshots reverberating through a battlefield.

And, suddenly, there was panic.

People everywhere. Running, diving, trampling over others on their way to the exit. Shouts, shrieks, and hollers of horror resounded through the club. Through it all, Tom could not even see what was going on. Tastes, rather than glimpses, of the situation filtered through the scrambling masses. There was the acrid flavor of flames and smoke, intermingling with the acrid scent of fear. There were jumbled words.

From Max came the urgings of, "C'mon, Tom! We need to get out of here."

From unfamiliar mouths came the warnings of, "The place is on fire! Fire, fire!"

The ones who once accompanied him at the table—Yvette, Max, Rupali, and Kris—were now separated from him. Hither, he saw a flash of Kris's gold hair. Thither, he saw a patch of Max's dark skin. Steadily, they were pushing their way out—but he?

He was frozen in his spot.

Although—at first—it was due to confusion and uncertainty, those reasons soon fled him like doves startled by crude hands. They were replaced by a pair of burning, raven eyes and a pair of cold, winking handcuffs—snapped onto him by the owner of the aforesaid eyes. One cuff clamped his right wrist; the other clamped a leg of the table before him.

"No use in struggling," said the man who had melted out of the shadows. "The table legs are welded to the floor."

"What are you doing?" Tom heard himself stutter in a voice that sounded far, far away.

There was a snort in response. "Isn't it quite obvious? Take a look around you."

Breaths coming in shallow pants, Tom craned his neck to see past his captor, and found himself surveying an emptied club. On the dance floor, the brilliant presence of dancers was now replaced by the brilliant, beautiful, _terrifying _presence of flames. Around the dance floor, abandoned chairs lay askew.

"Who are you?" the teacher asked in a whisper, but the other seemed to hear him.

"A member of an organization that was angered very much by your dear friend, _Alex Rider._" The name was spat out with loathing. "So now we've decided on our retaliation—to set his life on fire and turn everything he cares about into ashes."

Tom swallowed heavily, reminded of Alex's words from the day before: _"Tom, uh, my flat burned down."_

"Sorry, I can't stay to chat." The face of Tom's executioner was gleeful. "This club won't be standing for much longer—"

And he was right. As Tom watched the man saunter away and disappear, tongues of angry flames licked over the satin-covered walls. Thick, black smoke snaked its way between the chandeliers, which were reflecting a wicked, orange glow onto the deserted dance floor beneath. Consumed by fire, the tables and chairs were turned into agents that helped spread the destruction.

It was hell.

* * *

"_Alex, do you believe in God?" Tom asked, voice soft like air-spun clouds dusted across faithful skies._

_A long moment passed. "I...don't know."_

"_Do you believe in heaven?"_

"_...I believe in hell."_

_

* * *

_

The foul fumes were choking Tom's throat now—pouring into his lungs and clouding over his thoughts. He could sense himself struggling against the handcuffs, but it was to no avail. Instead of "seeing his life flash before his eyes", the only thing his foggy brain could conjure was the cruel face of his executioner.

* * *

"_Imagine that you are in a Nazi concentration camp, being sent to be burned to death in the crematory. Describe what you see when you look into the face of your executioner. You have ten minutes." The English teacher—Mr. Bennett—paused, scanning the class room to make sure that he had everyone's full attention. Only one student failed to make eye contact: With a crumpled posture and a deadened expression, Alex Rider continued to be the only person who did not regard him with fearful respect. Suppressing the impulse to scowl, Mr. Bennett glanced at the clock and said, "_Go."

_A frenzy ensued. Curtains of hair obscured faces that were bent studiously over papers. Sounds of scribbling pencils lorded over the room._

_But one person differed from them all._

_Deliberately, Alex Rider lifted his pencil and stroked not more than one word. Then, resignedly, he slumped back into his seat._

_Mr. Bennett was outraged. "Mr. Rider. Your absence has extended longer than two weeks and, upon your return, you do not even make the _slightest _effort to participate? What is the meaning of this?"_

_Alex shrugged._

"_If you are so confident in your abilities, Mr. Rider," he continued calmly—and his calm was like that before a storm, "come up and put your paper under the projector—so that the whole class can have the pleasure of reading it."_

_Dull eyes turned onto the teacher. Lithe limbs unfolded themselves from their position._

_Tracked by watchful stares—some from curious students who didn't know him very well, others from worried friends who did—Alex trudged to the front of the room. Under the projector, he placed a single sheet of paper; and upon that single sheet of paper, there was a single word:_

Darkness.

_

* * *

_

It was so very hot now.

Too hot.

Even the images of burning eyes and chilling handcuffs could not anchor Tom to reality.

He couldn't see.

He couldn't breathe.

His mouth tasted nothing but smoke.

His ears heard nothing but a dull roar and crackle.

He was tumbling downwards, losing his grip on consciousness...

_

* * *

_

_Ashes, ashes, we all—_

_Fall._

_Down._

* * *

Not what you expected? It certainly wasn't what_ I_ expected when I sat down to write.

Do a random act of kindness and review. :)


	4. After The

Few definite truths existed in Alex Rider's world. On Monday, the world could sing of peace; on Tuesday, the world could chant of war. At six o'clock, a man could be an ally; at the stroke of seven, he could be an enemy. Half past nine could observe the death of a loved one; three quarters past nine could observe the resurrection.

One verity remained consistent, however:

Faces would always be maps.

Like the signs on a map, the signs on a face displayed directions—directions on how to act and react, in order to manipulate a person accordingly. Anyone could be taught to read both the former and the latter; and Alex, for one, was very adept in both the arts of map-interpretation and face-interpretation. Admittedly, the second required much more practice than the first. That was why, even without conscious consideration, he would find himself studying those around him. Presently, the object of such scrutinies was one Tulip Jones, Deputy Director of Special Operations.

The furrow between her eyebrows denoted distress. The thin line of her lips demonstrated disapproval.

When she spoke, it was with a combination of the two sentiments. "Alex, are you certain about this?"

"Of course."

"Your emotional attachments worry me."

"They don't worry _me_."

She sighed. "This is..._highly _unorthodox."

"I'm a highly unorthodox individual."

"Yes, I know." Her smile was wry; no doubt, she was reminiscing about Alex's unusual past. "Nevertheless..."

"Tulip, I assure you that nothing will go wrong. I'll be back by this evening." _Ian had made promises like that before,_ Alex realized belatedly.

_I'll be back in a few days._

_I'll be back in time for your football match._

_I'll be back for your birthday._

His uncle had never kept those promises.

Firmly, Alex buried such musings. "Allow me until midnight. If I haven't returned by then, send someone after me."

Against her better judgment, Tulip nodded tersely. "Do you have all of the equipment that you require?"

"Yes." A gun and a promise of revenge—that was all Alex needed.

"Will you be taking a company car or...?"

"A company car, most definitely." Something raw flashed in Alex's brown eyes. "The bastard obviously knows what _my _car looks like."

"All right." She opened a desk drawer and withdrew a key. "This is for the Rolls-Royce, the one you used for your mission in Wiltshire." A pause, and then an earnest bid of, "Good luck."

"I won't be needing it."

Promptly unfolding himself from the seat, Alex strode to the exit. He could feel the Deputy Director's eyes upon him, burning a hole into his back—but then the door swung shut, and he was alone in the deserted hallway. Only top operatives had offices on the fifteenth floor; thus, not many people ventured into this corridor. Even less passed through at ten o'clock on Saturday evenings.

When the elevator's thermal intensifier sent out a message of _'he's armed; pause for further instructions', _the alarm was quickly overridden by security. Some people were, after all, allowed to carry weapons.

On the first floor, the receptionist heard his purposeful steps and glanced up. Recognizing him, her lips parted in greeting. Words failed her, however, when she took note of his shuttered expression and deadly air. Perhaps, tonight, she would forgo the obligatory salutation. Agent Rider looked like he wasn't in a mood to talk.

He wasn't.

Too many thoughts and too many emotions assaulted him in tandem. He wanted air.

With deft hands, he pushed open the lobby doors and allowed the bitter night to saturate him. Carefully glancing right and left, Alex crossed the street and headed for MI6's parking deck. He could have chosen to use the underground passage between Royal & General and its garage, but he knew that being out in the open was good for him. Because public areas caused him to be more alert, they distracted him from his thoughts. And, if he were distracted from his thoughts, he would act more objectively. (_More rationally,_ he hoped.)

The Rolls-Royce that Tulip had assigned him was dark blue. Glad that the bloodstains had been removed since his Wiltshire mission, he yanked open the door and slid inside. At the turn of his key, the engine purred to life.

And he was off.

London was as familiar to Alex as football. Therefore, driving through its districts provided a nice time to align his thoughts and strategies.

But he didn't have a strategy, not really. In the aftermath of Tom's—

_Don't think about it_, said Alex's mind.

—In the aftermath, he'd been so _enraged _that he had stormed into Tulip's office and demanded to know everything.

Aware that Alex was no longer an ingenuous fourteen-year-old, she had complied:

"_It was our fault," _she'd said simply, eyes turned away from him. "_We had assigned Tony Faulkner, your partner from Detroit, to be part of your security detail. Unbeknownst to us, however, Faulkner had turned his loyalties to Prometheus during the mission. We didn't find out until about an hour ago, when we studied Manette's security footage. That's why everything went so wrong."_

"_Faulkner joined those pyromaniac bastards? And you assigned him to be my _security_?" _Alex had echoed, outraged. He remembered Faulkner's jealous expression, remembered Faulkner's bitter tone as he remarked that Alex—who was ten years his junior—should not have been getting such a high salary. It had all made sense in that moment. _"That – that's how he knew I was at Manette's!" _Cursing fluently, he had proceeded to insist that she allow him to take him down.

Therefore, she had briefed him on the rogue agent's location, and—in the end—she had warned him, _"Faulkner is unaware that we have discovered his treachery, but be careful nonetheless."_

Be careful.

Not reckless.

He took a deep breath, slackened his grip on the steering wheel, and tried to empty his mind.

Except his mind wouldn't empty.

The previous day's conversation swelled up, unbidden.

"_If I care, then I'll get hurt! It's just easier this way, Tom! I'd rather sit here and pretend that nothing happened, okay? That's my way of dealing!"_

Sometimes, Alex cared. Sometimes, Alex hurt. Sometimes, Alex would rather _not _sit there and pretend that nothing happened.

"_..._Dammit, _Alex! Are you even fucking human anymore?_"

Sometimes, Alex was a little too human and, in his profession, being a little too human was a little too dangerous.

Still, he was a Rider. He would get the job done.

Moments after making the decision, he realized that he had reached his destination. Parking the car a block away from his target building, Alex ghosted out into the street. The shadows embraced him, and he kept his face down. Tempo brisk and eyes alert, he made his way over night-cloaked pavement and into a nondescript, square building.

It was an average flat, and the scent of cooking meat wafted through the barren halls. Above him, fluorescent lights flickered capriciously; and around him, faint noises prickled his ears—strains of a television ad, screams of a fighting couple...

But the sounds all died away when he reached the third floor. Here, the silence was almost oppressing and, if possible, the bulbs dangling from the ceiling appeared even feebler.

Alex concentrated on two tasks: breathing, and keeping track of the flat numbers.

Inhale. Exhale.

301.

Inhale. Exhale.

305.

Inhale. Exhale.

309.

_Jackpot_.

He raised firm fists to rap at the door.

* * *

_Knock-knock._

_Who's there?_

_O'Hare._

_O'Hare-who?_

_O'Hare I come to_ get you.

**

* * *

**

So many things could have gone wrong. Faulkner could have been out, or had company. Neighbors could have passed through, or heard the commotion. Instead of those occurrences, however, there was merely the sound of nearing footfalls, light and brisk. Closer and closer they came until, abruptly, they—

Stopped.

A pause.

Then, the chink of an undone lock. The twist of a door handle.

_Inhale. Exhale_.

The press of hands against wood.

_Inhale. Exhale_.

The creak of an opening door.

_Inhale. Exhale._

The appearance of a curious face. The widening of surprised eyes. The parting of lips in a pained _O_, as an unexpected fist slammed into pliant flesh. The wheezing, the coughing, the second fist into the jaw, the third fist into the stomach. The weak question (_pitiful plea):_

"Rider, wh-what are you doing here?"

"You _know _why I'm here."

In Faulkner's dark eyes, there was knowledge. Knowledge and fear.

"I – I –" stuttered the rogue, scrambling backwards even as the avenger stepped forwards, shutting the door behind him.

"Not so brave, now that we're face to face, are you?" Alex's tone was cool—dismissive, dispassionate, disdainful. "That's why you joined Prometheus, right? 'Cos you're a fucking coward? A fucking jealous coward, who wanted to get _even _with me?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

_Pathetic_, Alex decided. _Faulkner was pathetic._ "Lies."

Another fist, sent hard and fast into Faulkner's face, followed by a satisfying _crunch_.

"Did you enjoy it?" asked Alex, forcing Faulkner onto the floor with a vicious palm-strike to the chin. "Did you enjoy tying Tom up? Leaving him to burn?"

Throughout the words and the rain of fists, Alex somehow managed to maintain control. (Cold, unnatural, _inhuman _control.) Each torment and each hit was well placed—to inflict maximum pain, maximum damage.

"You fucking enjoyed it, didn't you?" Alex was kneeling over him now, and they both understood the vulnerable position that Faulkner was in. Horrors could be achieved in this position: Assault. Torment. Rape. Murder.

From Faulkner, there was a pathetic whimpering. "S-stop—"

And, in answer, there was laughter. "You haven't answered my questions, you bastard. Did you enjoy it? Was it worth it?"

More whimpering, coming in a torrent, almost as fast and gruesome as the blood from the increasing wounds. By now, Faulkner's face was disfigured beyond recognition. In the dim lighting, Alex could just make out the other man's eyes—darkened and swollen, anguished and pained. As the MI6 agent leaned forward, those helpless eyes watched him, much like a desperate hare watched a wolf.

"Just say yes. Just admit that you joined Prometheus to ruin me. Just admit that you wanted to make my life hell," Alex whispered, his breath tickling the shell of Faulkner's ear.

"Y-yes."

"Why?"

A weak, miserable snort. "B-because you're Alex Rider. You can have whatever you want, you can do whatever you want, and it's not fair."

Alex laughed a low, chilling sound. "Do you really think that?"

Faulkner did not answer. He _sensed, _rather than saw, the unveiling of the gun. And then he felt the intense impact against his neck, the stunted stutter in his heart...

_The darkness._

**

* * *

**

Some people were inclined to think that up was up and down was down. Tom Harris knew better, though; up and down were subjective, and it all depended on perspective. At the moment—and that was the most precise measurement, for Tom couldn't distinguish between seconds or minutes or hours—his perspective centered on the _heaviness _in his limbs, dragging him down.

Down, down, down.

But he was in no rabbit hole. He was in...a trance, perhaps? Everything seemed—and that was the most precise description, for Tom couldn't detect sight or sound or smell—to be a dark gray. If there were edges, they would have been fuzzy. Instead, there were merely sensations, and they were indeed fogged. Maybe he wasn't in a trance after all. Maybe he was in a fog, and – and –

_...An object at rest would remain at rest, unless acted upon by an unbalanced force; an object in motion would remain in motion, at a constant velocity and in the same direction, unless acted upon by an unbalanced force..._

Unless said object was a falling body, in which case—

_d²r/dt² = d²(rT__+ r)dt² __≈ - __Gm₁rT/|rT|³_

—it would fall faster and faster and _fasterandfasterandfaster—_

Until it slammed into the unforgiving Earth, all aches and pains and winded breaths and confused thoughts and _why-the-hell-am-I-still-alive?_

"Did you really think I'd let you die?"

That voice...that voice was not part of the unreality, not part of the fog. It was too real, too _raw_. Too familiar, in its timbre and its draw.

For Tom, it was a pinprick of light, guiding him away from abstraction. Away from darkness. Belatedly, he realized that his previous question must also have been part of reality. Somehow, he must have found a way to voice the words.

With this knowledge, he tried once more to communicate, but found that conscious effort seemed to undermine his enterprise. Parting his lips was a struggle, now, and his throat felt as if it had been stuffed with sun-scorched sand. So he attempted something different, and focused his attention onto the heavy, _heavy_ lids shuttering his eyes. His lashes were like palm fronds—dainty in appearance, yet surprisingly stout in weight. When he finally managed to open them, he found himself assaulted by light.

No more gray.

No more, for it had been replaced by white and mute-blue: ceiling, and window and sky.

And on his left was a very familiar person—

"_Alex_?" A hacking cough chased Tom's hoarse inquiry.

"Tom!" The other man rose rapidly from his seat. "How do you feel?"

"Like shit."

"Yeah, smoke inhalation does that..." Alex's smile was strained by unsuppressed worry. "I should go get Doctor Sinclair."

"_No," _Tom insisted immediately, with an adamant and steadier voice.

"Why?"

"You owe me an explanation." He cocked a critical gaze at his friend, noting the changed appearance: Now, having gotten rid of the multiple pierces and two-toned hair, Alex looked much more like his former self. However, his eyes—muffled by anxiety and underscored by bruised skin—worried Tom.

Borderline hysterical, Alex laughed as he backed into the haste-skewed seat, adjusting it so that he could once more face Tom. "But the doctor said—"

"—And how often do you listen to what the doctor says?" Stringing so many words together was a battle, but Tom was willing to fight. "What day is it? What happened at the club? Who burned it down, and—more importantly—did you kick the bastard's ass?"

Another strangled laugh. "It's Sunday, nearly lunchtime," Alex allowed. "You've been unconscious since the fire."

"_And?" _prompted the other.

Dragging a weary hand through tousled blond locks, Alex leaned forward and dropped his gaze into his lap; guilt interplayed with his handsome features. "And I suppose I should start at the beginning..."

"Sure, sure," said Tom, a bit more impatient. "Once upon a time?..."

"Tulip assigned me a mission—to penetrate a Detroit-based gang that was starting to spread overseas. They called themselves Prometheus, and had an affinity with fire." Alex paused, taking a moment to plan his explanation. "...My partner was a man named Tony Faulkner, and I met him briefly before we flew to the States. The first thing he said to me was: _You're Alex Rider, huh? I've got seniority over you, so don't even try to take over _my _mission._"

"Sounds like a bastard."

Afraid that voicing his agreement would trigger a premature outpour, Alex only permitted himself a tight nod. "We didn't work well together. He..._disliked _me immensely, and I soon realized that—despite the fact that we were partners—he meant to complete the mission alone. I confronted him, and we had a, uh, pretty bad argument." Not desiring commentary over the obvious understatement, he barreled on. "Everything fell apart after that. The details are classified, but I'll admit that it was..." Thoughts of fiery torture and hellish death branded Alex's mind. "..._bad. _Although my cover was blown, I somehow managed to complete my mission—"

"Of course you did."

"—and I returned to England, convinced that I was safe."

Tense fists clenched at rumpled bed sheets, accompanying the bitter resentment that echoed in Tom's voice and smile. "But you weren't."

"Yeah. Knowing that Prometheus would retaliate, MI6 assigned me a security detail. Tony Faulkner was part of them."

Tom seemed to sense the impending disaster. "_Why?" _he asked, outrage prevalent in the furrow of his brows.

"They believed that the mission had familiarized Faulkner with Prometheus's ways. Unfortunately, they were unaware of just _how _familiar he was with them." Alex expelled a heavy breath, along with the growing anger he felt. "After our argument, Faulkner had turned his loyalties to the gang. He... Obviously, he wasn't happy about the results of our mission."

A brief silence ensued. Discomfited, Tom shifted on the bed, watching as Alex stared tiredly out the window. When the noonday light struck his face, the shadows beneath his eyes stood out in stark contrast.

"So," the agent said finally, "he decided on his revenge. He burned down my flat and, at the club, he lured me away from the group."

Able to detect the dark cloud surrounding Alex, Tom endeavored to distract him. "Well, how did you save me?"

"Manette's ventilation shafts were large enough for me to crawl through," said Alex, by way of explanation.

"...Only you, Alex. Only you."

Alex released a breathless sound, like a parody of laughter. "For the people that I care about, I'd do anything. Sacrifice, suffer...even kill."

And, at those words, something cold slithered down Tom's spine. "You didn't – I mean, did you..."

"Kill Faulkner?" Alex sighed when he witnessed Tom's wince. "You know that I've killed before."

"...But that doesn't mean I like to think about it."

The fundamental difference between the two men resided in that one sentence. While Alex had resigned himself to acceptance, Tom had not yet been desensitized to the horrors of humanity; and, for that small blessing, Alex was glad.

"I hadn't expected anything different." Lips turned up in a grim, little smile, Alex assured, "And don't worry. MI6 wouldn't kill him before they got a chance to interrogate him."

"You still kicked his ass though, right?" Tom's attempt to lighten the mood missed its target.

"Yeah," said Alex, angling his eyes downwards to hide his emotions. "Showed up at his flat. Beat him to a pulp. Shot him with a tranq dart."

It took a moment for the teacher to register the words. "You... You showed up at his _flat_? By_ yourself?_"

A nod.

"But anything could have happened! You could've – you could've... I don't even want to _think _about it."

"Then don't," sighed Alex, relieved yet disappointed that Tom had skipped over the admission of 'beat him to a pulp' and attacked the admission of 'showed up at his flat'. _Perhaps it was better that way_, Alex decided. His avenging actions—spurred by grief and wrath—were something that he had _needed_ to do. He had needed them to satisfy his anger. To be human. And he didn't need someone to judge him on that.

"...Well. At least you got your happily ever after?"

The other man laughed. "Perhaps."

* * *

In a different part of London, there was a penthouse. Within the penthouse, there was a kitchen. And, within the kitchen, there were two sisters.

"Quit moping, Olivia," said the younger, twirling a strand of white-blond hair absently. "Did you really think you had a chance with him? I mean, he was a customer and you were a clerk."

Olivia set down the sandwich that she had been attempting to eat. "Shut up, Silvie. I'm not moping."

"Liar. You only eat peanut-butter and honey sandwiches when you're upset." Silvie giggled. "Did you even find out his name?"

"Alex Rider," the older girl revealed, and then said with more reluctance: "It was on his receipt."

From Silvie, there was more laughter. "You're pathetic. But, really, I had to ask you something."

Pouting just a little, Olivia snapped, "What?"

"Can you come to Westbrook tomorrow? Angelique di Marco will be speaking, and we get extra credit if we bring a relative." Seeing her sister's expression, Silvie hurried on, "I would've asked mum and dad, but you know that they're on a business trip."

The other rolled her eyes. "What if I'm busy?"

"Olivia, I _know _you don't have classes on Monday mornings. C'mon, just show up for me, please? I promise it won't be boring."

"I highly doubt that, but..." Olivia sighed. "Okay."

* * *

It's crap. I know. Lock me up and throw away the key? *headdesk*


	5. End

This chapter has been written for quite a while now. I just didn't have the guts to post it because it was really bad, but it hasn't gotten any better, so I thought I'd post it anyway. Thanks, tyz, for encouraging me to get this over with. And thanks, J, for being supportive and reading this - and not leaking it onto the internet!

* * *

At this time of morning, silence reigned with its golden fist. All was a-hush as the blackness of night bled into the crimson of the rising sun. Occasionally, bird song broke the spell, sparkling in the air above Alex's head just as white frost sparkled in the grass beneath his feet. His light breaths fogged before him, steady wisps against the backdrop of trees and sky.

Jogging around the park once, twice, a third time, Alex finally decided to return to Tom's flat. Traffic was starting to increase in the streets, and workers were beginning to leave for their jobs.

On the way back, he stopped at Camilla's, grabbed two cups of coconut raspberry mocha and listened to the soft conversations. Such a normal place always made him feel more normal, and feeling normal always made him feel better. Thus, with calm disposition and peace of mind, he entered the warmth of the flat, trekked across the sitting room and into the kitchen.

Tom was already there.

"Morning," Alex greeted.

The man reciprocated blearily, reaching out to grab one of Alex's cups. "Thanks."

Without speaking, he sipped, tasting the notes of fruit and tropics on his tongue. The other watched him, taking dregs of his own coffee as well.

Finally, having ignored the steady gaze for as long as possible, Tom sighed and looked up. "What?"

"What do you mean _what?_"

"Why are you staring at me?"

"Just enjoying the view?" Alex offered innocently.

"Please." Exasperated, Tom rolled his eyes. "Don't make me throw something at you. Again."

Fair hair fell across one eye as Alex sighed, then folded his legs up onto the chair he sat on. It was an oddly childlike position, and there was something oddly childlike in his gaze. "Are you sure you're ready to teach today?"

"Why wouldn't I be sure?"

"You—" Alex gestured vaguely, his hands making hazy patterns in the air. "You've been through a lot this weekend."

"I know."

Neither man looked at each other. The dark-haired one stared blankly into his drink, vexed. The blond gazed out a little window in the far wall, observing the brown bricks of the building opposite.

"So?" Alex prompted at last.

"So, maybe I'd like to pretend that nothing happened."

Hearing the parody of his own words, said so flatly and decidedly, Alex didn't know whether to laugh or cry; instead, he swallowed the raw lump in his throat and said quietly, "Okay. If that's what you want."

Beside him, Tom gave a terse nod. "I should get dressed now."

"Okay."

Alex's eyes were still fixed on the window, but he sensed his friend's departure. For many moments, he sat alone in the empty kitchen—not really seeing nor hearing nor feeling. But, perhaps, mourning.

"_So, maybe I'd like to pretend that nothing happened._"

High up on the wall, a clock intoned time's unending song, in counterpart to his relentless thoughts.

"_...maybe I'd like to pretend..."_

Tick.

_Tom shouldn't have to pretend_.

Tock.

"_...that nothing happened." _

Tick.

_Nothing should have happened to him._

Tock.

Ring, ring—

From within Alex's pocket, the peal of his mobile joined the chant of the clock.

Blinking, he reached for the device. "Hello?"

"Cub."

"Wolf." He cleared his throat. "Hi."

"Need any clarification on what you'll be doing today?" said the SAS agent bluntly, pointedly.

_Cutting to the chase_, thought Alex. _Why am I not surprised?_

"Um. Care to give me a run through of the basic schedule?" the younger asked, despite knowing that plans never went accordingly.

A sound of gruff agreement, and then, "When you get to Westbrook, look for the North Wing conference room. We'll be debriefing the agents in there. Then, we'll leave to attend a tour of the school, and—"

"Wait. A tour of the school?"

From Wolf, there came a snort. "Cub, do you even know what Angelique di Marco will be speaking about?"

"No," said Alex. As an afterthought, he defended himself, "No one told me."

"And you never asked," Wolf replied. "Di Marco is lecturing about education. That's why she chose Westbrook—because, apparently, it's an exemplary model of how schools _should _be. Anyway, before she speaks, everyone will be split into groups and given guided tours of the place."

"By whom?"

"A few students and maybe a teacher chaperone." The SAS agent paused and, when it seemed that his counterpart did not plan to comment, continued with, "At 10:00, we'll all gather in the auditorium to hear her speech. Got that?"

"Yes."

"Then, I'll see you."

"Yeah, see you."

Their call ended.

Stowing away the phone, Alex stood up and stretched, allowing the young sun to dabble patterns across his skin. With muffled tread, he walked out into the pale green sitting room, through the still-dimmed hallway, and into his temporary bedroom. He removed clean pants and a suitably formal shirt from the closet. The stiff, new fabrics scratched at his face as he dragged them on, but when he appraised the mirror afterwards, there were no telltale marks.

Gone was his roguish appearance, replaced by an ordinary young man. He was about to head back to the entrance hall when he stopped, noticing his partially shut drawer. Glinting from within was a pair of handcuffs—police issued, of course. He plucked them out and tucked them into his clothes, uncertain of why he was doing so but heeding the instinct, nevertheless. Then, satisfied, he nodded sagely and left the room.

Tom was waiting for him in the entrance hall. "Ready?"

"Set. Go," said Alex.

Chuckling softly, Tom opened the door and Alex followed him out.

They greeted the couple in the hallway, made idle chatter with the young lady in the elevator, and nodded at the receptionist in the lobby. Then they parted ways, with Tom settling into his beat up sedan while Alex slid into his polished BMW.

The journey to Westbrook was not far. Within minutes, both men had pulled into the busy car park. Several volunteers lingered here and there, directing drivers to open spaces with hands and whistles. Thus, it was not long before Alex found a spot. He unfolded from his seat, waved at Tom across the way, and then strode toward the sign saying _North Wing Entrance_.

Visitors, students, and staff streamed by him on the pavement. But, when he passed through polished double-doors_,_ the crowd seemed to disperse immediately. The temperate, linoleum halls stood in silence, void of bustle and chatter. There, Alex paused for a moment, thinking.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes, I need to find the—" He stopped abruptly when he caught sight of the voice's owner. "Oh. Hello, Kris."

"Alex!" Kris smiled, lips pulled wide by excitement. "Whatever happened to you on Saturday?"

Reminded of the night's events, Alex withheld a grimace. "Ah, yes. I hadn't been feeling well."

"Oh..." She gestured with grand, albeit vague, motions. "I suppose it was better that way! I'm sure you heard of the fire."

Something painful tore at his stomach, raw and undiluted. "Yes. It was a pity."

Her agreement was eager. "Yes, yes! Truly a pity!"

"So." Alex shifted. "I was wondering—"

"Yes?"

"—Can you help me find the North Wing conference room?"

"Of course, but why do you need to—" Realization flashed on her face, and the brightness of her smile became less so. "Oh." She coughed. "Um. Tom never said that you were..."

"I work with the government," Alex said simply, looking her square in the eye.

"Okay..." Slowly, she nodded. "Well, all you need to do is head that way, take a left, and there should be a sign."

"Thanks, Kris." Alex's gratitude seemed to lessen her discomfort, and she nodded, quicker this time.

"No problem! I'm glad that I can help."

He aimed a strained smile at her and stepped away, following her directions until he caught sight of a large placard proclaiming: North Wing Conference Room. Nimble hands darted forth to give the door a deft push, and he was promptly greeted by twenty-some men, half of whom were dressed as ordinary citizens while the other half was guised as police.

As both halves jumped to their feet respectfully, rumpling their uniforms and scraping their chairs, Alex was struck by the distinct feeling of déjà vu. Clearing his throat, he pushed through their midst and arrived before Wolf, Snake, and Eagle.

"Late, again?" asked Wolf, thoroughly not amused.

Eagle grinned. "At least he doesn't look like a punk anymore."

Feeling the curious eyes drilling into his back, Alex wanted to reply with _go to hell_, but wisely held his tongue. "Did I miss anything?"

"Not particularly. We just went over some strategies, but I doubt you'll need them," Snake answered, shrugging. "We're going to the tours now."

Alex sighed. "Lovely."

* * *

In Westbrook's gymnasium, Olivia Baptiste felt painfully awkward. Groups of students were queued up against the left wall, beneath a sign proclaiming _Tours Here_, and she scanned their midst for a familiar, white-blond head.

It proved to be unnecessary when Silvie found her first and beckoned with a call of, "Olivia!"

"...Thank god, I found you," said the older one, jostling to land beside her sister. "Do you know how scary it is, not knowing anyone?"

Silvie merely laughed. "You know _me."_

Snorting, Olivia angled her face away and absorbed the myriad people, feeling distinctly safer now that she had found a niche. Families converged around their children, reporters debated with their cameramen, and others merely milled around. Amongst those who had no home, she caught sight of a face that made her blanch, completely ashen. The gum she had been chewing nearly fell out of her gaping mouth.

"_Oh – _my god," she professed, eyes fixed on the familiar, handsome man. "Hide me!"

A little off guard, Silvie leveled her with an inquisitive gaze. "What?"

The older girl could do nothing but point with one shaky, manicured finger. "That – that's – "

White-blond strands were whisked to one side as Silvie turned, in pursuit of Olivia's meaning. Quickly, though, she forgot all about her sister's words as she recognized the man as well.

"—Oh, my god!" echoed Silvie, for reasons that differed greatly from Olivia's. "That's—"

"Mr. Harris's gay gangster lover." Danielle Donahue had appeared from seemingly nowhere, and was eyeing the object of their interest critically. "But he doesn't look much like a gangster anymore..."

"My _what?_" And yet another voice, one laden with poorly concealed indignation, entered their growing discussion. "Girls, who are you talking about?"

Automatically, the trio turned to see who had spoken; and, by the time that Tom Harris had arrived in their line of vision, Olivia and Silvie were looking suitably chagrined while Danielle only looked deadpan.

"_Him."_ Blithely, Danielle gestured toward the center of the gym, not even fazed that she had been caught gossiping. "The man who was at your flat on Friday, Mr. Harris."

"He – he isn't my _gay gangster lover_," sputtered the teacher, voicing the last words as if they were foreign to his tongue.

"Oh, don't worry! You can come out to us!" Danielle's smile was probably intended to be reassuring, but Mr. Harris did not feel reassured in the least. "We support you completely!"

"We do?" muttered ever-faithful Phillip, trailing to stand alongside his twin.

Simultaneously, another person was stuttering an uncertain accusation, "Tom! I never knew that you and Alex were..."

Tom whipped around, finding a familiar woman beside him. "Kris! No, no. We aren't..."

His words were drowned out by several exclamations, voiced all at once.

Whelmed and dazed by the auditory overload, Olivia backed out of the group and heaved a sigh of relief. It was easier to breathe, now that she was outside of the rapid-fire conversation. Nevertheless, it was still difficult to follow their overlapping, tidal-wave words. Phillip was lagging silently beside his sister, but he was the only one who did not speak. Silvie and Danielle were taking turns grilling Mr. Harris for information. At the same time, Kris—whom Olivia assumed to be another teacher—was doing the same; and, in the midst of them all, Mr. Harris was firmly trying to deny all charges of being gay.

"...the hell is going on?"

Hearing the inquiry, Olivia glanced to the person beside her. He was short and muscular, with a disciplined stance that seemed almost...militaristic.

"I'd tell you if I knew." She shrugged, then added as an extension of camaraderie, "They are quite loud though, aren't they?"

"Yes," he said shortly, in a voice that boded no further reply.

Thus, silently, they watched the discourse escalate. Mr. Harris proved to be rather terrible at multitasking as he tried to deflect Danielle's enthusiastic assurances, answer Silvie's well-mannered queries, and address Kris's apprehensive words.

He relinquished the spotlight gratefully when, at long last, the reason of their discussion arrived.

Alex Rider.

Swallowing drily, Olivia nearly choked on her gum as she recoiled away, nervous at confronting him after her embarrassing display of infatuation. Next to her, the militaristic man observed this anxiety, and a frown of suspicion spread over his face in response.

Of course, being an unsuspecting civilian, she noticed none of his suspicions as she tried to hide from Rider. She had no need to worry, though, for Rider had not even registered her presence. Instead, he was pushing into the group assembled around Tom, mildly perplexed by their bickering and completely unaware that the aforesaid bickering involved him.

"Hey, Tom. How's it going?"

Before Tom could even open his mouth, Danielle twisted to point avidly. "You! Tell us the truth!"

"Yes, please tell us." As always, Silvie was noticeably politer than her best friend. "Are you really Mr. Harris's gay gangster lover? And what happened to your appearance?"

"...Uhm." He had a lost puppy look, big brown eyes searching for assistance. Yet he certainly couldn't have been innocent, not with the amount of scars that marred his arm. Finally, he looked to his friend, saying with faux hurt, "Tom, darling, are you ashamed of our relationship?"

The words were playful, expert examples of facile acting, but Tom was Not Amused.

"_Alex," _he groaned, and for a moment, he almost seemed to be addressing an unruly class, "that isn't funny." Silently, he added in his mind: _Girls_ _will take that the wrong way. _Parents _will take that the wrong way._

Good-naturedly, Alex shrugged. After all, he didn't want to push his friend, didn't want to push the boundaries so soon after Saturday's events.

"Well," he said, sweeping speculative eyes over the congregation, "I'm not really a gangster, nor am I gay—" _Was it just his imagination, or did Danielle look disappointed? _"—and the appearance thing? That was just for a bet. Really, I'm just an ordinary guy."

Briefly, Olivia was convinced that the militaristic man gave a snort of disbelief. But, when she glanced toward him, it seemed to be more of a cough than a snort. Chalking it up to her own insanity, she shrank further into the shadows. Perhaps it was a good thing that Alex Rider had ignored her. He was such an ordinary guy and he deserved to live an ordinary life.

* * *

As far as speeches went, Di Marco's was certainly not the best. Her short stature was compensated by three-inch heels that clacked loudly as she paced the stage. A deluge of empty promises and grandiloquent language spilled fluently from her lips, as the audience below her fought to stay awake.

In an attempt to relieve boredom, two of the members had resorted to eavesdropping. Their casual appearance belied the fact that they were SAS trainees—just as the casual appearance of their victims belied the fact that they were, respectively, an SAS member and an MI6 employee.

The first of the trainees, a redhead by the codename of Hound, whispered to his companion, "Well, you got your answer, mate."

"What?" The second, Vulture, blinked in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"Remember Friday, when _he _showed up?—" Hound nodded at the fair-haired spy, two seats in front of them. "—You asked if he was in the right place."

Vulture shrugged sheepishly. "It was a reasonable question, wasn't it? I mean, he looked like..."

The words trailed off as they heard the SAS agent ask of the younger man:

"Have you noticed any strange people today?"

Cub—_Rider—_replied with a snort, "Strange? How specific."

Scowling, Wolf said, "You know what I mean. Have you seen any of your enemies?"

At the word 'enemies', an unnervingly blank expression slid over Rider's face. "No." Calmly and slowly, as though nothing were wrong, he surveyed the surroundings. "Have you?"

"Can you stop answering my questions with questions?"

"I don't know." He regarded his companion mischievously, seeming—for a moment—younger than his twenty-five years. "Can I?"

Having listened to the entire exchange, Hound and Vulture shared knowing looks. Wolf would never let someone get away with such rudeness, and they anticipated the outraged explosion.

Thus, their shock was understandable when Wolf merely huffed, saying in exasperation:

"Cub, this is not the time to get smart with me."

Rider shrugged, and the two SAS trainees marveled at his flippancy, jealously pondering about the ease at which he could escape Wolf's wrath.

"Just tell me," the MI6 agent was saying. "Who've you seen that looks suspicious?"

Wondering if they would finally be seeing some action, Hound and Vulture perked up, eager to hear the response:

"Her." Wolf pointed discreetly at a woman across the auditorium. She was twirling a strand of white blond hair and popping a wad of bubble gum.

"—Shit."

Worried by the response, Wolf demanded, "Who is she?"

Instead of answering, the agent asked in return, "Where did you see her?"

"Earlier this morning," said Wolf reluctantly, annoyed that Rider had, once again, ignored conversation etiquette, "while we were in the gymnasium."

"What did you notice about her? What did she say to you?"

"This better be going somewhere, Cub—"

"I told you not to call me that!"

"—because you're really pissing me off, right now."

"I piss off a lot of people. What makes you so special?"

Wolf rolled his eyes, indulging in a childish moment before saying, "Let's get back to the topic at hand, shall we? I noticed the woman's strange reaction when you showed up. She shrank away and appeared rather nervous; thus, I concluded that she had something to hide. Am I right? Did you meet her on a past mission?"

By now, Rider was looking rather incredulous, and most of the color had returned to his face. A moment later, he began to chuckle.

"What the hell, Cub? Answer me!"

For a moment, Rider said nothing, keeping Wolf, as well as Vulture and Hound, in suspense. Then, slowly, his laughter began subsiding, much to the relief of the SAS men.

"She—" said Rider, at last. "—Her name is Olivia. She works at a store that I visited recently."

"And?"

At that moment, a person in Vulture and Hound's vicinity began to cough. Irritated, both men sat up straighter, unconsciously straining to hear the answer.

"And nothing. She put her number on the back of my receipt, but I never gave her a call. I would imagine that she was avoiding me out of embarrassment."

A pause, before Wolf ground out, "That's _it?_"

Behind them, the two SAS trainees were experiencing the same sentiments. Hound gave a sigh of annoyance as Vulture deflated back into his seat.

"Wow," said the latter, quietly. "I can't believe that—"

But Hound shushed him, for Alex had started to speak once more:

"Three o'clock, Wolf. Tell me that the guy doesn't look suspicious."

After registering the words, Wolf's neck snapped to the right, immediately focusing on a middle-aged man. As he pushed his way to the stage, his right hand passed compulsively through thinning, brown hair, but his left hand remained steadfastly hidden within his jackets.

"Why would you say that he looks suspicious?" queried Wolf. "Not that he isn't, I mean. But we have guards out front who would have stopped him if—"

Before he could finish, however, the middle-aged man made his move. In the blink of an eye, he leapt onto the stage, and seconds later, a gun sprouted from his left hand, causing a sudden clamor of panicked shouts.

"Looks like you'll have to bin those guards," said Rider, the calm tone of his voice completely at odds with the tense lines of his body.

Wolf grimaced. "Should we do something?"

"If necessary." Rider shrugged, gesturing at the man on the stage. "He's an amateur, but I guess we'd better play it safe, huh?"

With that, he stood and began picking his way past the frightened audience. No one noticed his movements, for everyone was too busy scrambling to get down or get away. The uniformed SAS, who had sprung up to keep order, were having more trouble than they had anticipated. Several of them had begun to close in on the stage, but they could do nothing else at present—not when they knew nothing of the man.

Alex ignored this chaos with ease, concentrating solely on the attacker's words. After all, it paid to understand the enemy's motivation—and said enemy was eager to share it.

"You! You ruined my son's life!"

His voice was shaking in tandem with his hands. Thus, Alex concluded that he was unstable, motivated purely by emotions.

"I'm sorry, Mr.—?"

"You don't need to know my name, you bitch! You ruined my son's life."

Di Marco flinched away, as if slapped. Subtlety, she glanced around, edging backwards.

Attempting to placate the unnamed man, she asked, "I'm sorry. I don't understand?"

"Don't give me that bullshit! It was that law you passed! The one that took money away from special needs schools!" He took a deep, shuddering breath. "My son's school shut down because of it, and now you have the nerve to get up here and speak about the _importance of education!_"

If the situation were any different—if the unnamed attacker had not pulled out a weapon—Alex would have felt sympathetic. In truth, he _did _feel sympathetic, but the sentiment was tinged by the need to ensure the audience's safety.

Still largely unnoticed, he slipped onto the stage. Disarming the attacker would be too simple of a task, he realized, prowling up behind the other man. It really wouldn't be fair, especially because the man had only acted out of outrage for his son.

But life wasn't fair, Alex reminded himself firmly, and guns never solved problems.

Sighing, he closed the gap between them. A swipe to the ankle distracted the man, allowing Alex ample time to remove the gun from his grasp. Tucking the weapon into his shirt, the MI6 agent pulled out his pair of handcuffs.

"Sir, you are under arrest."

* * *

"It's over," said Tom, not looking at Alex as they crossed into the lobby. "My life is over."

"C'mon," Alex protested half-heartedly. "It can't be _that _bad."

"You have no right to say that. It's not you who has to get up tomorrow and face those – those little _monsters."_

"Surely, you're being melodramatic? Your students can't be—"

"They're teenagers, Alex. _Teenagers_." When they reached the elevator, Tom jabbed forcefully at the up button. "About fifty of them came up to me, today, asking if you were my gay gangster lover."

"But I told those kids that I wasn't!"

"Yeah, but did you really expect them to believe the 'boring old truth'? Anyway, after your little _display _on the stage, even more came up to badger me."

"What did they say?" asked Alex, a little scared of the answer.

Tom sighed, just as the elevator slid open. Stepping inside, he looked forlornly to the mahogany ceiling, as if begging heaven for strength.

"Some of them were fawning over you, others were suspicious, and others were just curious. And, of course, you weren't there to help me."

"I'm sorry," offered Alex, pushing his hands into his pockets. "You know that I had to debrief the soldiers."

Desiring to change the subject, Tom dropped his gaze back to his friend. "And how did that go?"

Alex closed his eyes with a wince, not replying.

"That bad, huh?"

"Well." The agent shrugged, attempting and failing at nonchalance. "Unlike your students, most of them were too, um, intimidated to ask my anything. But that didn't stop them from _staring. _Plus, the unit wouldn't stop teasing me about...ugh." Losing steam halfway through and unwilling to relive the scene, Alex gave up.

"Oh. Staring. And teasing. That must have been _torture." _Tom's sarcasm was not lost on the fair-haired man.

Weakly, Alex said, "Shut up. Just – shut up."

The rest of the elevator ride was made in silence, with Tom glancing occasionally at Alex, and Alex staring fixedly at the door, slightly anxious about the confined space, as always. Arriving shortly, they disembarked side-by-side and walked toward Tom's flat. On the carpet by the door, a square package sat, brown and unassuming.

"Tom?"

"What?"

"There's a package by your door."

Rolling his eyes, Tom picked it up and said, "Really? I had thought it was a rhinoceros."

"Tom," said Alex, more urgently. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"What? Picking up the package?"

"Yeah, what if it's a bomb?"

Tom snorted. "You're paranoid."

"That's how I survive in this business."

"Imagine someone overhearing that."

"No one is going to overhear. This place is swept regularly for bugs."

Upon registering the words, Tom groaned. "Wow. I feel like I should be surprised, but I'm not."

"Sorry," said Alex, and he was because Tom shouldn't have to be thrust into the espionage world, shouldn't have to be _familiar_ with the espionage world.

"It's fine," the teacher conceded, unlocking his door and entering. "And my package is not a bomb."

Alex followed him inside. "How do you know that?"

Flicking on the lights, Tom tossed the box to his friend, who caught it reflexively. "Open it."

Suspicious, but forcing himself to swallow the suspicion for Tom, Alex began to tear apart the cardboard. "If this explodes, I'm going to kill you."

Folding his arms, Tom said nothing and jerked his head impatiently. Together, they watched the wrappings come undone, before Alex reached within to retrieve the object. He weighed it thoughtfully, staring at its black and white patches and myriad signatures.

"It's a football," said Alex, a deluge of memories flooding into his mind—memories of a summer day, of a tree-lined park, and of a best friend with whom he could fool around and just be _normal._

"Yes."

"And it's signed by my favorite team."

"Yes."

"And it must have been really hard to get."

"Yes. Take a look at the card."

Again, Alex reached in and felt around until his hands sought purchase on a slim card. It was plain, white with two words:

_Happy Birthday_.

Even though it was late and even though it was simple, Alex decided it was perfect. "Thanks, Tom."

Tom smiled. "You're welcome."

* * *

End

* * *

Did anyone listen to Sean Kingston's _Fire Burning_ while reading the third chapter? Probably not, but I thought I'd ask - because I did, and the irony made me laugh. :) Thanks for reading. And to all the reviewers: You make my day brighter, and even though I can't reply to the anonymous reviews, I still appreciate them! If you've read up to here and haven't said a thing, I'd love to hear your opinion.

Now, last question: I know most of the fandom is interested in reading about a teenage Alex (right?), but is there anyone who's still willing to read other future fics (not related to the Never-Verse)?


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